


Fairly Fuzzy

by antisepticdork



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AND NOTHING BAD HAPPENS, Crack, Multi, Oneshot, Pack Feels, Pack Fic, also isaac is a sad puppy, also peter is sassy and just generally awesome, and i hope it's cute, derek is allergic to social situations, don't hate on me for the title brah, i mean really it's cracky, if there was ever pumpkin picking and autumnal fairs written into teen wolf, stiles wrestles pigs, this was my contest entry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antisepticdork/pseuds/antisepticdork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had been watching Derek’s constipated face get progressively worse as they got closer to their destination, and now he knew why—this was priceless, and Stiles tried not to laugh. “You brought us to a county fair?”</p><p>Peter half-turned to look at him from the driver’s seat. “Hey, it was either this or a treasure hunt-themed Pilates class in Sacramento—short notice, blah blah, I don’t want to hear it.” He literally kicked open his door, stepping down into the muck with no qualms. “Let’s go, or we’ll be late for the pig wrestling.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairly Fuzzy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is just a oneshot fic I threw together for the writing contest that the Teen Wolf peeps were having back in September, and since I didn't win (gross sobbing), I decided I'd share it. It's cracky, but I think it's also sweet. The original idea came from my friend Caitlin - we're both from New England and county fairs in the fall months are a big deal here. I figured it wasn't too much of a stretch to put one out in California. :P Any mistakes are my own. Hope you like it!

Stiles was catching a much-needed nap in his Jeep—complete with snoring and drool—when he was startled awake by somebody tapping on his window.

He grumbled as he cranked it down to glower at Derek. “Would you mind telling me what the hell I’m doing sitting outside your creepy burned-out house at ass-o’clock in the morning?”

Derek’s eyebrows lifted in a _how rude_ sort of way, but he extended his other hand, revealing a travel cup of—holy crap, _coffee_ , which he was apparently offering to Stiles. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you… but I don’t know.”

“Oh my God, I retract every bad thing I ever said about you,” Stiles said hurriedly, grabbing the cup and popping off the lid—miraculously, it was exactly how he liked it. “How did you…? Never mind, I don’t care—you’re the only person in this town that’s foolhardy enough to give me a source of straight caffeine and _that_ makes you awesome.” Stiles sipped, going “ow, ow, ow,” under his breath when the steaming beverage burned his mouth. “You really don’t know what’s going on? I got a text message from your murderous uncle last night, saying the band of fuzzy munchkins should meet here at dawn.  So here I am—even if I’m not fuzzy.”

“He disappeared, mentioned something about all of us meeting up. Peter says the pack needs more _bonding time_.” Derek uttered the words ‘bonding time’ like he was talking about a venereal disease. “Is Scott coming?”

Stiles shrugged. “Beats me, man. If he can contain that loathing thing he’s got for you, maybe.”

They waited.

All of the usual suspects arrived, sans the guy who’d wanted them there in the first place. Stiles couldn’t help but snort— _of course,_ Peter would be one of those people who told everybody else to show up at a certain time and then was twenty minutes late. Otherwise known as punctuality by proxy.

Erica was lying spread-eagled on the ground, stripping an unfortunate pine bough of its needles. She looked impatient. “Is he _ever_ going to show up?”

“He’s pretty slow for an undead guy,” Isaac commented, busily making shadow puppets on the side of Jackson’s Porche, much to the amusement of Lydia and Boyd. “He’s later than Scott, anyway—that deserves an award.”

“Hey!” Scott exclaimed. “It’s not my fault, I don’t even want to—” His eyes flickered to Derek, but he cut himself off, crossing his arms and leaning against a tree. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

Allison had her arms wrapped around herself and was staring at the toes of her boots. She kicked at a rock and said, “You think _you_ don’t know why you’re here? I feel like I shouldn’t be on the same planet. This is more awkward than Stiles doing an Irish step dance.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Oh for God’s sake, that was _one_ time—”

A horn blared, followed shortly by a 1960s-style green-and-white Volkswagon van, decked out with gaudy decals and moldy curtains. It came bouncing up the dirt path that qualified as a driveway to the Hale house, rusty rims glinting in the early sun, the engine making noises akin to indigestion.

Peter was behind the wheel of the monstrosity, grinning like a madman.

He went to roll down his window and it sort of fell into the door for him—he didn’t look remotely surprised. “Hey kids! The rent-a-car place was all out of SUVs—there’s things missing from the dash and some questionable stains, but all in all it’s not bad, right?”

Jackson was staring at the van as if both disgusted and afraid it was going to come up and bite him. “Maybe in Tennessee, or a third-world country. You actually expect me to _ride_ in this nightmare?”

Peter made a face and snarked, “Oh, you’re a pedigree, I’d forgotten. I hope I haven’t offended your delicate sensibilities, or whatever.”

Boyd seemed skeptical. “Looks like the thing’s about ready to fall apart. Where the hell do you plan on taking us?”

Lydia waggled her fingers and did something weird with her eyes. “To our _doooom_ , I’m sure.” She pursed her lips at Peter and looked disapproving. “Would’ve been better in a convertible.”

“Would you all just shut up and get in the van before I kill you?” Derek requested in his usual polite tone. Scott opened his mouth to speak and Derek held up a hand. “Don’t, unless you’d like a visual of your kidneys.”

Stiles shook his head to himself and said, “You know what this is, don’t you?”

Silence, and then Erica’s eyes widened and she giggled, actually frickin’ _giggled_. “Oh God, it _is_.”

“Besides bedbug infested?” Allison looked confused, but that was a step up from her trying to be an ice queen. “What is it?”

“This is like the ultimate cliché from your childhood.” Stiles adopted a singsong voice: “ _Honey_ , don’t get into the van with the seemingly friendly and attractive guy who’s offering you candy or a puppy or your sister.” He cackled, grabbing Scott by the arm and pulling open a door, dragging him inside. “Come on!”

“Get in bitches, we’re going pumpkin picking.” Peter honked the horn again and lifted his eyebrows at the looks on the pack’s collective faces. “What? I’m not supposed to make pop culture references because I’m the only person here above the legal drinking age? Sit down and put on the ropes that qualify as seatbelts—we need to get this show on the road!”

 

~***~

 

Three gas stations, seven mix tapes, and one accidental groping later, the band of merry werewolves was… somewhere. Miles and miles away from Beacon Hills, roaming in the boondocks of California in a LSD-trip van that sounded like it was farting every time Peter stepped on the brakes. They parked in a big grassy clearing filled with other cars amongst piles of cow shit and puddles of mud. There were kids and dogs and all kinds of people, locals and tourists alike. A mime was doing back handsprings not too far off, and a Ferris wheel could be seen turning over the tops of some trees.

Stiles had been watching Derek’s constipated face get progressively worse as they got closer to their destination, and now he knew why—this was _priceless_ , and Stiles tried not to laugh. “You brought us to a county fair?”

Peter half-turned to look at him from the driver’s seat. “Hey, it was either this or a treasure hunt-themed Pilates class in Sacramento—short notice, blah blah, I don’t want to hear it.” He literally kicked open his door, stepping down into the muck with no qualms. “Let’s go, or we’ll be late for the pig wrestling.”

Glances were exchanged, and then they were disentangling themselves from the ropes and getting out into the sunshine. Lydia wordlessly held out her arms, and Jackson rolled his eyes and picked her up, so she wouldn’t get her shoes dirty, although he was muttering something about $300 sneakers. Erica and Allison picked their way through the tire tracks carefully, while the boys walked like the dung was pavement.

“Your zombie uncle’s a weird dude,” Boyd said.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Derek grumbled, grabbing Stiles’ arm when he slipped and nearly fell. “I don’t see how fried dough and screaming children are supposed to help us bond.”

“I’m not bonding with you,” Scott mumbled, but as they approached the ticket booth he spotted something that made him perk up—if he’d had a tail it would’ve been wagging. “Hey, look, they do face-painting!”

“Yes, that really _is_ what he takes away from all of this,” Stiles confirmed in response to Boyd, Derek, and Isaac’s befuddled looks. Out of the three Isaac looked a little more befuddled, so Stiles asked, “What’s up with you? You look like somebody peed in your cereal.”

Isaac scratched the back of his head and made a poop face that wasn’t half as good as Derek’s. “I’ve, uh, never been to a county fair, or any kind of fair. Hell, I’ve never been to a zoo.”

Stiles was appalled. “Well, that settles it, then. Go get your friggin’ hand stamped with that cute sheep and we’ll do this.”

 

~***~

 

As soon as they got through the turnstiles, Scott dragged Isaac off to the face-painting booth, while the girls locked their sights on the craft stands. Peter and Boyd hopped on the gigantic swinging pirate ship, and Derek went and sat on a bench and pouted, just like a grown man should.

Somehow Stiles managed to talk Jackson into winning him a colossal-sized stuffed rabbit from the rigged basketball game—werewolf powers being good for something after all—and he went over to deposit it on the bench next to a certain sour Alpha. “Keep an eye on that for me, would you? Scott keeps texting me—apparently, I need to go see his tiger face.”

Derek grunted, which was more of an answer than Stiles had been expecting.

He turned to head for the face-painting booth but hesitated. Turning back, he said to Derek, “You know, you could at least _try_ to have some fun. I’m sure it wouldn’t kill you—you act like this is medieval torture or something. Shoot for happy… you’ll probably sprain something, but still.”

Derek actually seemed to consider the suggestion, and then waved a hand at Stiles. “Go check on Scott, I’ll… watch the damned, rabbit.”

 

~***~

 

Twenty minutes later, Stiles’ face was an alligator and he was munching loudly on some curly fries, cooing at how cute Isaac looked as a jaguar.

Stiles, Isaac and Scott met up with Allison, Lydia, and Erica at the bench and found that the three ladies had enough paper shopping bags to conceal a couple of WMDs. Jackson was gone—presumably off with Peter—and Boyd had taken up residence on the bench where Stiles had left Derek and the giant bunny.

“Um,” Lydia articulated.

Boyd spread his hands. “What? I think ol’ Thriller Night—” Stiles gave credit where credit was due, that was a good nickname for Peter, “—managed to convince Derek to get on the Tilt-A-Whirl with him and Whittemore. I stayed here with your toy collection.” The big bunny wasn’t alone—several other stuffed animals had joined it, including a couple of dolphins and a grizzly bear. Boyd shrugged. “I got bored, went and knocked over some bottles, they gave me crap.”

Erica grinned suddenly, grabbing Stiles’ by the arm. “How about some _real_ animals, instead of having them painted on your face?” She pointed. “Peter wasn’t kidding about the pig wrestling.”

Stiles frantically tried to backpedal. “Oh, no, no, no—you are _not_ throwing me in there—”

Scott scratched his chest absently, as they all listened to Stiles’ oh-so-manly shrieks. “Guess it’s too late for that.”

 

~***~

 

Eventually, they made it to the fabled pumpkin patch Peter had mentioned. Lydia sat on a log next to Stiles and looked the pumpkins Jackson brought over, tutting and shaking her head ‘no’ at every one. Scott and Allison were actually talking to one another, while Boyd and Erica held hands and looked through a pile of squash. Isaac was searching through all the pumpkins and picking out the little ones, or the ones that were crooked and cracked.

Peter dramatized a faint when Derek walked into the field. “Look who decided to join us— _swoon_!”

Derek’s eyebrows did their usual condescending and sarcastically amused bit. “You’re literally five years old.”

Stiles bounced to his feet, leaving his massive collection of stuffed animals in a pile on top of his jacket, which he’d laid out on the ground. “Either that or he has the maturity level of a grapefruit—although I’m probably not a great authority on that subject.” His eyes locked on the fuzzy gray thing in one of Derek’s hands. “What’s that? And if you say ‘ _dismembered kitten’_ one more freakin’ time as an answer to that question, I will find a way to ax-murder your ass.”

“Dismembered kitten!” Jackson called over his shoulder, only to get whacked in the backside with a particularly pointy-looking acorn squash.

Allison smiled and shrugged. “Whoops! Hand slipped.”

Derek tossed Stiles the object—it turned out to be, ironically enough, a small stuffed wolf.

Stiles made a face. “Well, that’s just sickeningly adorable.”

Something that might’ve been a smile on anybody else tugged at Derek’s mouth, and they stared at one another for a while, as Stiles and Derek were wont to do.

Behind them, Peter mouthed _I told you so_ to Scott and held his hand out for the twenty dollars he was owed.

 

~***~

 

“Now, was that _really_ so bad?” Peter asked from the passenger’s seat on the drive back to Beacon Hills. He had to talk over the _chug-chug_ of the motor and the seemingly endless chatter coming out of the ragtag pack of teenagers. “You’ve got a van full of pumpkins and plush toys and hormones—what more could you want?”

It was a rhetorical question, of course, but Derek actually gave it a barely-audible answer: “Not much.”


End file.
